Epilogophilia: You're 16, Beautiful, and etc
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Mark reflects on the perils of small towns. Hardcastle ponders an absence of leftovers.


Disclaimer: They aren't my characters and I make no profit from them.

**Author's Note:** The original script of this episode was written by the late Lawrence Hertzog. It's a gem of understated wit with even has one dry aside about the vital importance of the swimsuit competition. There's a whole lot of philia in this epilogue.

**Epilogophilia: You're Sixteen, Your Beautiful, and You're His**

_Hardcastle does a favor for an ailing friend by taking over his post as judge for a small town beauty pageant, 'Miss Sixteen'. He and McCormick are drawn into the lives of local RV salesman, Ed Whitman, and his daughter, Melissa, who is one of the contestants. _

_While enduring a series of uninspired talent acts by comely sixteen-year-olds, and even less inspired casserole suppers by Ed's wife, Marge (her specialty is mac and cheese with chunks of hot dog in it), the guys discover that all is not right in this part of middle-class Americana. Melissa asks them to help her boyfriend, whose uncle came across the border illegally, and who witnessed the murder of one of his fellow immigrants at the hands of the men who were smuggling them._

_The uncle is murdered, too. The guys go south of the border, meet up with the smugglers, and discover that Ed Whitman is at the top of the chain of command. In the end, Ed and his confreres are busted, and Sara Jane Rose takes the crown, possibly on the strength of her baton performance._

_Hardcastle and McCormick escape back to L.A._

**Epilogue**—by L. M. Lewis

There were home, finally, and it had seemed like a lot longer than three days. McCormick stood in the back doorway, a cold beer in his hand. The Whitman's had favored 7-Up.

He surveyed the pool. It was a little on the leafy side, but he had an unaccountable urge to get some dirt under his fingernails—nice gritty dirt—not that Malibu was particularly urban, but at least he could _see_ the smog over LA from there, and that was a strange comfort.

He heard the judge behind him, also looking in the fridge. Without turning around, and almost musing to himself, McCormick said, "You suppose it's like that everywhere?"

"Like what?" Hardcastle muttered, obviously still scanning the leftovers with some justifiable suspicion.

Mark looked over his shoulder. "Like the Whitmans. All that smiling and pictures from the Grand Canyon, and frankfurters in the mac and cheese," he shuddered slightly, "while all along he has people killing other people for him." He stepped back into the kitchen, studying Hardcastle's bent form. "There's nothing in there, Judge, I already looked."

"None of that lasagna you made last week?"

"It was green. It had to go."

"The chili?" The sound of muffled hope came from behind the half-closed fridge door. "You should've frozen some of that."

"I didn't. It usually gets finished off the next day, when your judicial duties don't summon us out of town."

Hardcastle stood up, frowning. "No guacamole? I made a big batch of that."

"It was green to start with," Mark observed. "How can you tell when it goes bad? Better safe than sorry."

Hardcastle hmmphed.

"But Ed Whitman," Mark frowned, trying to get the thread of his argument back, "do you suppose there's guys like that in every small town? I mean, look at Clarence."

Hardcastle scowled. He did not like looking at Clarence. His hometown had been a bit of a sore spot with him ever since its leading citizens had tried to kill him.

"And Silver City, and Canary Creek," Mark pondered on thoughtfully.

"What about LA?" the judge grumped. "Lots of bad guys in LA. How 'bout Atlantic City? _Washington D.C._," he added triumphantly, then frowned again suddenly. "Hope not too many there." He sighed and shrugged. "Bad guys everywhere. Good people, too, though. Look at Melissa's boyfriend. He's a good kid."

"Yeah, but they'll probably _deport_ him."

"Nah, got him a hearing with the Immigration Service. You know he was a minor when he came across. He's got family here, too. I think we're gonna get it worked out. Then he'll be legal, be able to get some schooling, maybe get something a little steadier than the car wash gig."

Mark looked at him in puzzlement. "When'd ya do all that?"

Hardcastle scratched his head a moment. "Phone calls. I think it was between the pie crust demonstration and the tap-dancing monologue from Spoon River."

Mark knit his brows. "I musta missed that one."

"Yeah, you were snoring. Don't worry, the taps mostly covered it."

McCormick managed to look mildly embarrassed.

"Anyway, what are we gonna do about dinner?"

"I could always whip up some mac and cheese," Mark offered.

The scowl was back, and darker still.

"Won't be the same, though," he added diffidently. "We're out of hot dogs."


End file.
